---
Shadows of the South
Chapter One: Honey, Like Lies
"What do I have to tell you
I'm just trying to hold on to something
Trying to hold on to something good
Give us a chance to make it."
-John Secada, Just Another Day
~*~
Greying hair hanging low over his eyes, the man bent over the stack of papers and studied the figures with a narrowed gaze. His lips moved lightly as he read, and a low muttering worked from his throat, but other than that, the immense study was silent. And, then, the door squeaked open.
Tamahome glanced up, drawing the glasses from his nose as he did so, and watched as a tall, familiar figure stepped into the room. Flickers of afternoon sunlight flitted in through the picture windows behind the desk, washed over the boy's long, silky chestnut hair, glittered like gold in his eyes. Tamahome studied his eldest son as the boy entered, taking in the subtle strength to his movements, the elegance to his walk; the warm sheen of adulthood that was just starting to stretch over his features.
Hotohori was almost a man, now. It was hard to believe.
The sixteen-year-old moved to the edge of his father's desk, came to a slow halt just in front of it. The heels of his black riding boots clacked together with the motion. "Father," he said formally. His head ducked a bit, sending waves of silken chestnut whispering over his shoulders, fluttering out against the sunlight.
Tamahome nodded. "Son."
There was silence for a moment, Tamahome gazing out at the noble figure of his eldest son, Hotohori finding interesting spots on the wall to study--and, then, the younger man strode forward, not stopping until his thighs touched against the desk, and locked his father into his stare. His voice was firm; determined.
"Father," said Hotohori with a great breath, "I've decided that I don't wish to go back to school."
The older man nodded slightly. "All right."
"And, I realize, Father, that we talked of me going to college someday and becoming a doctor like Grandfather, but I think now that I'd much rather--" The young man paused, the words hanging like soap bubbles before his face, and stared at his father in shock. "A...All right?"
The older man nodded again. "Yes." He smiled a little. "Miaka told me you were thinking about it, and I think it's an excellent idea."
"An...an excellent idea?" Hotohori frowned. "Father, are you feeling all right?"
"Of course."
"Then..." The frown deepened, dragged at the young man's handsome features. "Then, you don't mind? You don't mind if I stay here on the plantation and don't become a doctor? You don't care about that?"
"No, not at all. What's important is what you want, right, son?" A sly grin worked at the man's lips. "Besides, that boarding school was costing a fortune, and cotton sales are down this year..."
Hotohori smiled. "That's better."
Tamahome, having been scribbling figures on a piece of paper as quickly as his hand would move, stopped and glanced up. "What's that? What's better?"
The sixteen-year-old only smiled, slid his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks, and shook his head. "It isn't important, Father. Anyway, I haven't eaten yet, so I think I'll go down to the kitchen and have Miaka fix me something." His lips twisted quizzically. "By the way, Father, how on earth did she know I was thinking of dropping out of school?"
The man didn't glance up from his figures, but the blush that worked in his cheeks was more than explanation enough. "That woman knows everything, you know that." But, then, after a slight pause: "She said she overheard you talking to one of the kitchen girls." One eyebrow arched. "The 'pretty one?'"
Hotohori flushed. "Nuriko," he said. "Is...is she new, Father? I don't remember her at all from before."
"No, she's not new. But, then, you haven't exactly been around the Plantation very much over the past few years, have you? Or--" He smiled a little, and his eyes lifted from the papers, winked out at his eldest son. "--maybe you just weren't in the right frame of mind to notice her until now. She's very intelligent. Your grandfather was talking about teaching her medicine, of course, but then, that's his dream for every slave he comes to with half a brain."
Suddenly seeming to remember something, the boy stood a little straighter. "That's right," he said. "Grandfather was teaching one of them medicine before I left, wasn't he? The...the man who drew your baths, wasn't it?"
Tamahome offered a slight smile. "Mitsukake. Yes. Your grandfather taught him all he knew." His voice went soft. "It's strange. Your uncle is always telling me things about them having smaller brains than ours, but Lord, I've never seen anyone learn faster. I guess it just goes to show that not all slaves are stupid."
At the mention of his uncle, Hotohori's face darkened. "And, not all white men are intelligent."
"I can't argue with you there. But...anyway." His lips lifted into a wide, genuine smile. "It's good to have you home. Go get something to eat from the kitchen. And, I would hurry. Before Miaka eats it all."
Hotohori returned the smile, nodded slightly to his father, and turned to leave. A few moments later, he was moving lightly down the grand staircase, and despite his hunger, all thoughts of food had fallen far from his mind. Lord. What was wrong with him, anyway? First, when he was young, there was that crush he had on Miaka--on Miaka!! A clutzy slave woman who ate too much and was twice his age, anyway! And, now... Gah. Now. Hotohori shook his head, coming to a slow halt at the bottom of the staircase, and let himself spend a moment praising God that his sister was out for the day. Yui was too good at reading him, even after all the years they'd spent apart. She would take one look at his face and know the who, the what, and probably have a good grasp on whatever secret opinions he might be holding onto. But, then, Yui was just irritating like that.
He leaned his elbow against the banister, pressed his forehead to his arm, and closed his eyes.
He'd only just gotten home, yesterday, from the hell that was boarding school. Good Lord, eleven years of his life, gone to that horrible place! It'd felt like a prison term, or, more accurately, like a continuous stretch of torture that paused only for the seven or so hours he spent sleeping--the boys had been obnoxious and officious, the teachers had been snobbish and close-minded, and Lord, being shoved into that cramped little chapel every morning and being forced to listen to an ancient man with bad hygiene preach on and on and on about the values of slavery and the importance of repetance and, aaaaaagggggh!!! Just thinking about the fact that he never had to return there, even coupled with all that currently weighed on his mind, brought a smile to his lips.
That was one place he would -not- be missing.
He'd known he was leaving for good, he supposed, when he was walking out the front door of the school a day ago. There'd been something like freedom in his heart, as he stepped out into the warm summer air--something like joy, and he'd known that, from that moment onwards, things would never be the same.
And then, many hours later, he'd walked in through the back door of his house, stepped into Miaka's kitchen, and found himself face to face with the embodiment of beauty herself.
Nuriko. Her name was Nuriko. She was of medium height and very slender, with long, silken dark hair that was often plaited into a braid. Her skin was smooth and warm and brown, soft and unblemished as his own, and a dark mole rested beneath her left eye. Her clothing, of course, was befitting a slave--simple, earth-tone dresses that hung like potato sacks over even the most impressive figure--but, there was something different about Nuriko; something that encircled this girl like a mist, made her seem like more than just another slave in an unattractive frock with flour on her nose.
He'd noticed that Something More immediately, of course. When a person spends eleven years of his life in the company of nearly all males, he learns to survey the opposite sex with an urgent kind of pre-selection; those that stick out to him, he leaps for with every ounce of passion he possesses. Those that don't, he doesn't bother with.
Nuriko stuck out, of that he was sure. And, why shouldn't she? She was beautiful, intelligent, moved with the grace of a dancer, and had the uncanny ability to look at him and completely unravel his thoughts and perceptions. Standing before this girl was like exposing the innermost parts of his heart and soul to her scrutiny--and, yet, unlike Yui, Nuriko was not unkind about this knowledge. He'd only spoken with her a few times, since he'd been home for such a short time, but each time they'd spoken, it felt as if he'd lost and gained something very important; something magical, perhaps. Nuriko stole the words from his lips, the thoughts from his mind, the tremors from his heart--but, she gave of herself in return, and he walked away from her each time feeling richer than before.
Something touched lightly at his shoulder. Startled, Hotohori straightened, realizing with a bit of a blush that he'd been leaning here against the banister for several minutes, now, in clear view of the kitchen and the entryway, and argggh. He turned and found Miaka standing just behind him, plump and pleasant and sucking sugar from her fingers. "Hotohori!" she exclaimed, voice muffled by the presence of the finger in her mouth. "I'm so glad you're back for good! You hungry? Want some food? I can make you some! Come on, come on!"
Smiling, Hotohori let himself be dragged, more glad than he could really fathom that he was at home again, and that home--despite a few welcome additions to the kitchen staff--had not changed. Of course, Miaka was a little older, now; a few more lines around the jolly brown of her face, a few more inches to the round of her waist--but, she was still Miaka. Still eating, still speaking like the whites she'd grown up around, still--he winced as her elbow slammed into the vase just inside the kitchen doorway, sent it crashing to the ground--just as clutzy as ever.
Miaka brought a hand to her mouth, somehow managed to pull off a girlish giggle without it sounding forced or...well, out of place. "Oops," she said. Her dark eyes flickered to the scattered remains of the vase. "That's the third one. I hope Ta--err, I hope the Master isn't mad."
Hotohori stared at the woman for a long moment, taking in the strange, childish hairstyle (dark brown hair, piled into small buns that rested on either side of her head like giant meatballs), the wide dark eyes, the aged immaturity that surrounded Miaka just as that Something More enveloped her younger companion. //I can see why he loves her,\\ he reflected wistfully. //Even if it's scandalous, even if Nakago would probably take the plantation away from him for it, I can see why.\\
"You don't have to pretend with me, Miaka," he said quietly. "I've known for a long time about...about you and my father."
Miaka's eyes went wide. "I-I don't know what you're talking about, but--" She bustled to the nearby cupboard, flung it open, and pulled free a sack of flour. "--I'm gonna make you some pancakes!"
He opened his mouth again, ready to insist that it was all right, he knew all about them and it didn't matter to him...but, the words melted from his lips as a soft voice echoed from behind him.
"I wouldn't let her do that," Nuriko said wryly, her slim form leaning lightly against the doorframe. "You haven't been back for long enough to taste Miaka's cooking, but..." She wrinkled her nose.
Miaka turned to face the girl looking offended, but the tone of her voice easily gave it away as an act. Her hands balled into fists, slammed onto her widening hips. "I," she brayed, "am the head of the kitchen! Why would I be in charge of the kitchen if I couldn't cook?"
Nuriko's eye ducked into a wink. "Don't play dumb, Miaka. You know why just as well as I do."
Miaka nodded proudly. "All right, fine! I'm tired of hiding!" Her fists relaxed, then smoothed down over her hips and slid them forwards in a slow circle. "It's my figure!" she announced, returning the wink. "What man could help himself?"
Nuriko grinned. "At least one, I'm sure." Her eyes, which he'd discovered were a startling shade of brown tinged with violet, flickered suddenly onto him. "Right?"
For a long moment, he couldn't speak, caught breathless by the intensity of those eyes upon him...and, then, he regained his composure, offered a slight smile. "Actually," he began slowly, well aware of the blush that crept into his cheeks, "when I was younger--"
Miaka laughed, cutting through the words before he had a chance to say any more. "Ha, see there? It's true. I am irresistable!"
"Not when you're making pancakes, you're not." Nuriko slid forward and, shooing at the older woman with her hands, stepped into place behind the counter. "Here, give me that. I'll make them."
Knowing she'd lost, Miaka relinquished the sack of flour without much argument--but, she still made sure to slam it hard into Nuriko's hands before she left. A great cloud of flour exploded from the sack, sputtered onto the girl's face. Suddenly finding herself bathed in powdery white, Nuriko sneezed.
"Bless you," Hotohori offered. Then, he slid forward and--fingers trembling only slightly--set to work brushing the flour from Nuriko's face, dabbing at the smooth brown skin with the sleeve of his shirt and trying to remember why it was bad for a white boy to get involved with a slave...
Nuriko, as if she'd been struck, slid suddenly back from his touch. Her hand went to her cheek, so abruptly that he was afraid that he'd somehow hurt her, but, of course, that was ridiculous. All he'd done was try to help her to clean the flour from her face, that was all! And, yet, she was standing there with her back against the counter, hand pressed to her flour-spotted cheek, eyes wide and dark like something had scared her.
Hotohori frowned. "N...Nuriko? What's wrong?"
Nuriko looked suddenly pale, but she shook her head. "I-It's nothing," she murmured. "I'm...I'm sorry. I'll make those pancakes, now, sir."
Sir? Granted, they'd only just met...but, the kitchen staff was always so familiar with him. Why...why, Nuriko herself had called him Hotohori yesterday--hadn't she? He couldn't remember...
"Nuriko? Please, what is it? Did I do something wrong?"
The girl stared up at him from where she'd been patting at the flour, and he was shocked to find a sheen of tears welling behind the darkness of her eyelashes. "No," she whispered. "I did. I'm sorry, I'll go get Miaka to make you those pancakes."
She was gone before he could even think of what to say.
~*~
Nuriko slammed the Quarters door shut behind him, closed his eyes, and leaned his back against the wood.
//It was bound to happen. Spend too much time pretending you're something, and, Lord above, you'll become it.\\
He slid silently down the door, touched against the wooden floorboards and wrapped his arms around his knees. Lord, it was bad enough, him being a slave and Hotohori being Tamahome's son, but good God! What the hell was he even -thinking-, flirting with him like that??
"You're going to get your dress all dirty."
The words snapped him from his thoughts, made him sit up straight and stare out into the room with wide, shocked eyes. The Quarters themselves, located in the back of the House for the benefit of the Kitchen Slaves, were relatively small, equipped with a collection of blanketed cots, a few spare chairs, and a table with a small wash basin. He'd thought he'd checked the room before he'd come in, made sure he was alone...but, sure enough, there was Miaka, sitting on the edge of her bed with a piece of corn bread crumbling in her fingers.
"Hell's bells," Nuriko murmured, strangling back the tears. "Don't you ever stop eating, Miaka?"
Miaka didn't smile, though. She stood up, dropped the corn bread lightly on the edge of the table, and moved with a swish of skirts to his side. A moment later, she was sitting beside him, her presence warm and comforting against the darkness stirring in his heart.
"It's all right," Miaka said softly. "I know what it feels like. At first...I was so sure that I was -wrong- to feel like I did, and so I ignored it, but..." Her words faded. "But, it didn't go away."
Nuriko glanced at the older woman, thought he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "You and Tamahome," he said quietly.
Miaka nodded. "Mm-hm. It was a few years ago, just after Hotohori left for the boarding school. I...I thought he was only spending so much time in the kitchen because he liked to eat as much as I did, but...we -talked-, Nuriko. We talked about everything, and even though I wasn't as smart as he was, he never made me feel like I wasn't, or like I was a slave. I was just...just a woman when I was with Tamahome." Her eyes glittered. "A free woman."
Nuriko felt something dark clench in his stomach. That was it. That was what he'd felt with Hotohori--freedom. Equality. Lord, no wonder he'd been attracted to it! And, yet, there was still a question weighing on his mind, one he'd never had the courage or the inclination to ask before. "What about Soi? Did...did she ever find out about the two of you?"
Miaka's voice was soft. "I don't know. She hides it, if she knows." Despite the fact that they were clearly alone in the room, Miaka leaned forward, glanced from side to side as if checking for eavesdroppers. "You know," she whispered, "I've heard tell around the slave quarters down by the fields that that Yui child might not be his. I mean, isn't it peculiar, both of them having dark hair, and she's blond-haired, pale-skinned, and blue-eyed?"
Nuriko felt his eyes widen. "Y...You mean...Nakago??"
"That's what I heard. Course, there's no proof or anything, but..." She shrugged. "Well, anyway, Hotohori's probably waiting for his pancakes. Are you...?"
Suddenly finding himself broken from the distraction of the story and plunged knee-deep back into his own problems, Nuriko sighed. "Yeah, I'll go." With a low groan, he pushed himself back onto his feet, stood.
Miaka was scowling up at him. "Hey, don't just leave me. I'll be stuck down here all day."
With a smile, Nuriko reached down a hand, grasped onto Miaka's fingers, and tugged the woman easily to her feet. During the brief moment they stood face to face, he leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and then stepped back. "Thank you," he murmured. "You always make me feel better." He smiled. "Even if you are a glutton."
Miaka only smiled, and so he turned, tugged open the door, and made his way back to the kitchen.
~*~
AN: Yaaaaaaay. Close, chapter one. Phew, that was kind of long! -_-;;; Anyway, I have to take a five minute shower and run off to class in a few minutes, so I don't have much time for proofreading. Due to that, please ignore any and all typos and obvious grammatical mistakes. I'll fix them when I return. ^_~. Ah, and as for "hell's bells," it's historically appropriate, damn it!! At least, er...that's what Huck says in Disney's "The Adventures of Huck Finn," and by golly, that's good enough for me. *firm nod*
Shadows of the South
Chapter One: Honey, Like Lies
"What do I have to tell you
I'm just trying to hold on to something
Trying to hold on to something good
Give us a chance to make it."
-John Secada, Just Another Day
~*~
Greying hair hanging low over his eyes, the man bent over the stack of papers and studied the figures with a narrowed gaze. His lips moved lightly as he read, and a low muttering worked from his throat, but other than that, the immense study was silent. And, then, the door squeaked open.
Tamahome glanced up, drawing the glasses from his nose as he did so, and watched as a tall, familiar figure stepped into the room. Flickers of afternoon sunlight flitted in through the picture windows behind the desk, washed over the boy's long, silky chestnut hair, glittered like gold in his eyes. Tamahome studied his eldest son as the boy entered, taking in the subtle strength to his movements, the elegance to his walk; the warm sheen of adulthood that was just starting to stretch over his features.
Hotohori was almost a man, now. It was hard to believe.
The sixteen-year-old moved to the edge of his father's desk, came to a slow halt just in front of it. The heels of his black riding boots clacked together with the motion. "Father," he said formally. His head ducked a bit, sending waves of silken chestnut whispering over his shoulders, fluttering out against the sunlight.
Tamahome nodded. "Son."
There was silence for a moment, Tamahome gazing out at the noble figure of his eldest son, Hotohori finding interesting spots on the wall to study--and, then, the younger man strode forward, not stopping until his thighs touched against the desk, and locked his father into his stare. His voice was firm; determined.
"Father," said Hotohori with a great breath, "I've decided that I don't wish to go back to school."
The older man nodded slightly. "All right."
"And, I realize, Father, that we talked of me going to college someday and becoming a doctor like Grandfather, but I think now that I'd much rather--" The young man paused, the words hanging like soap bubbles before his face, and stared at his father in shock. "A...All right?"
The older man nodded again. "Yes." He smiled a little. "Miaka told me you were thinking about it, and I think it's an excellent idea."
"An...an excellent idea?" Hotohori frowned. "Father, are you feeling all right?"
"Of course."
"Then..." The frown deepened, dragged at the young man's handsome features. "Then, you don't mind? You don't mind if I stay here on the plantation and don't become a doctor? You don't care about that?"
"No, not at all. What's important is what you want, right, son?" A sly grin worked at the man's lips. "Besides, that boarding school was costing a fortune, and cotton sales are down this year..."
Hotohori smiled. "That's better."
Tamahome, having been scribbling figures on a piece of paper as quickly as his hand would move, stopped and glanced up. "What's that? What's better?"
The sixteen-year-old only smiled, slid his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks, and shook his head. "It isn't important, Father. Anyway, I haven't eaten yet, so I think I'll go down to the kitchen and have Miaka fix me something." His lips twisted quizzically. "By the way, Father, how on earth did she know I was thinking of dropping out of school?"
The man didn't glance up from his figures, but the blush that worked in his cheeks was more than explanation enough. "That woman knows everything, you know that." But, then, after a slight pause: "She said she overheard you talking to one of the kitchen girls." One eyebrow arched. "The 'pretty one?'"
Hotohori flushed. "Nuriko," he said. "Is...is she new, Father? I don't remember her at all from before."
"No, she's not new. But, then, you haven't exactly been around the Plantation very much over the past few years, have you? Or--" He smiled a little, and his eyes lifted from the papers, winked out at his eldest son. "--maybe you just weren't in the right frame of mind to notice her until now. She's very intelligent. Your grandfather was talking about teaching her medicine, of course, but then, that's his dream for every slave he comes to with half a brain."
Suddenly seeming to remember something, the boy stood a little straighter. "That's right," he said. "Grandfather was teaching one of them medicine before I left, wasn't he? The...the man who drew your baths, wasn't it?"
Tamahome offered a slight smile. "Mitsukake. Yes. Your grandfather taught him all he knew." His voice went soft. "It's strange. Your uncle is always telling me things about them having smaller brains than ours, but Lord, I've never seen anyone learn faster. I guess it just goes to show that not all slaves are stupid."
At the mention of his uncle, Hotohori's face darkened. "And, not all white men are intelligent."
"I can't argue with you there. But...anyway." His lips lifted into a wide, genuine smile. "It's good to have you home. Go get something to eat from the kitchen. And, I would hurry. Before Miaka eats it all."
Hotohori returned the smile, nodded slightly to his father, and turned to leave. A few moments later, he was moving lightly down the grand staircase, and despite his hunger, all thoughts of food had fallen far from his mind. Lord. What was wrong with him, anyway? First, when he was young, there was that crush he had on Miaka--on Miaka!! A clutzy slave woman who ate too much and was twice his age, anyway! And, now... Gah. Now. Hotohori shook his head, coming to a slow halt at the bottom of the staircase, and let himself spend a moment praising God that his sister was out for the day. Yui was too good at reading him, even after all the years they'd spent apart. She would take one look at his face and know the who, the what, and probably have a good grasp on whatever secret opinions he might be holding onto. But, then, Yui was just irritating like that.
He leaned his elbow against the banister, pressed his forehead to his arm, and closed his eyes.
He'd only just gotten home, yesterday, from the hell that was boarding school. Good Lord, eleven years of his life, gone to that horrible place! It'd felt like a prison term, or, more accurately, like a continuous stretch of torture that paused only for the seven or so hours he spent sleeping--the boys had been obnoxious and officious, the teachers had been snobbish and close-minded, and Lord, being shoved into that cramped little chapel every morning and being forced to listen to an ancient man with bad hygiene preach on and on and on about the values of slavery and the importance of repetance and, aaaaaagggggh!!! Just thinking about the fact that he never had to return there, even coupled with all that currently weighed on his mind, brought a smile to his lips.
That was one place he would -not- be missing.
He'd known he was leaving for good, he supposed, when he was walking out the front door of the school a day ago. There'd been something like freedom in his heart, as he stepped out into the warm summer air--something like joy, and he'd known that, from that moment onwards, things would never be the same.
And then, many hours later, he'd walked in through the back door of his house, stepped into Miaka's kitchen, and found himself face to face with the embodiment of beauty herself.
Nuriko. Her name was Nuriko. She was of medium height and very slender, with long, silken dark hair that was often plaited into a braid. Her skin was smooth and warm and brown, soft and unblemished as his own, and a dark mole rested beneath her left eye. Her clothing, of course, was befitting a slave--simple, earth-tone dresses that hung like potato sacks over even the most impressive figure--but, there was something different about Nuriko; something that encircled this girl like a mist, made her seem like more than just another slave in an unattractive frock with flour on her nose.
He'd noticed that Something More immediately, of course. When a person spends eleven years of his life in the company of nearly all males, he learns to survey the opposite sex with an urgent kind of pre-selection; those that stick out to him, he leaps for with every ounce of passion he possesses. Those that don't, he doesn't bother with.
Nuriko stuck out, of that he was sure. And, why shouldn't she? She was beautiful, intelligent, moved with the grace of a dancer, and had the uncanny ability to look at him and completely unravel his thoughts and perceptions. Standing before this girl was like exposing the innermost parts of his heart and soul to her scrutiny--and, yet, unlike Yui, Nuriko was not unkind about this knowledge. He'd only spoken with her a few times, since he'd been home for such a short time, but each time they'd spoken, it felt as if he'd lost and gained something very important; something magical, perhaps. Nuriko stole the words from his lips, the thoughts from his mind, the tremors from his heart--but, she gave of herself in return, and he walked away from her each time feeling richer than before.
Something touched lightly at his shoulder. Startled, Hotohori straightened, realizing with a bit of a blush that he'd been leaning here against the banister for several minutes, now, in clear view of the kitchen and the entryway, and argggh. He turned and found Miaka standing just behind him, plump and pleasant and sucking sugar from her fingers. "Hotohori!" she exclaimed, voice muffled by the presence of the finger in her mouth. "I'm so glad you're back for good! You hungry? Want some food? I can make you some! Come on, come on!"
Smiling, Hotohori let himself be dragged, more glad than he could really fathom that he was at home again, and that home--despite a few welcome additions to the kitchen staff--had not changed. Of course, Miaka was a little older, now; a few more lines around the jolly brown of her face, a few more inches to the round of her waist--but, she was still Miaka. Still eating, still speaking like the whites she'd grown up around, still--he winced as her elbow slammed into the vase just inside the kitchen doorway, sent it crashing to the ground--just as clutzy as ever.
Miaka brought a hand to her mouth, somehow managed to pull off a girlish giggle without it sounding forced or...well, out of place. "Oops," she said. Her dark eyes flickered to the scattered remains of the vase. "That's the third one. I hope Ta--err, I hope the Master isn't mad."
Hotohori stared at the woman for a long moment, taking in the strange, childish hairstyle (dark brown hair, piled into small buns that rested on either side of her head like giant meatballs), the wide dark eyes, the aged immaturity that surrounded Miaka just as that Something More enveloped her younger companion. //I can see why he loves her,\\ he reflected wistfully. //Even if it's scandalous, even if Nakago would probably take the plantation away from him for it, I can see why.\\
"You don't have to pretend with me, Miaka," he said quietly. "I've known for a long time about...about you and my father."
Miaka's eyes went wide. "I-I don't know what you're talking about, but--" She bustled to the nearby cupboard, flung it open, and pulled free a sack of flour. "--I'm gonna make you some pancakes!"
He opened his mouth again, ready to insist that it was all right, he knew all about them and it didn't matter to him...but, the words melted from his lips as a soft voice echoed from behind him.
"I wouldn't let her do that," Nuriko said wryly, her slim form leaning lightly against the doorframe. "You haven't been back for long enough to taste Miaka's cooking, but..." She wrinkled her nose.
Miaka turned to face the girl looking offended, but the tone of her voice easily gave it away as an act. Her hands balled into fists, slammed onto her widening hips. "I," she brayed, "am the head of the kitchen! Why would I be in charge of the kitchen if I couldn't cook?"
Nuriko's eye ducked into a wink. "Don't play dumb, Miaka. You know why just as well as I do."
Miaka nodded proudly. "All right, fine! I'm tired of hiding!" Her fists relaxed, then smoothed down over her hips and slid them forwards in a slow circle. "It's my figure!" she announced, returning the wink. "What man could help himself?"
Nuriko grinned. "At least one, I'm sure." Her eyes, which he'd discovered were a startling shade of brown tinged with violet, flickered suddenly onto him. "Right?"
For a long moment, he couldn't speak, caught breathless by the intensity of those eyes upon him...and, then, he regained his composure, offered a slight smile. "Actually," he began slowly, well aware of the blush that crept into his cheeks, "when I was younger--"
Miaka laughed, cutting through the words before he had a chance to say any more. "Ha, see there? It's true. I am irresistable!"
"Not when you're making pancakes, you're not." Nuriko slid forward and, shooing at the older woman with her hands, stepped into place behind the counter. "Here, give me that. I'll make them."
Knowing she'd lost, Miaka relinquished the sack of flour without much argument--but, she still made sure to slam it hard into Nuriko's hands before she left. A great cloud of flour exploded from the sack, sputtered onto the girl's face. Suddenly finding herself bathed in powdery white, Nuriko sneezed.
"Bless you," Hotohori offered. Then, he slid forward and--fingers trembling only slightly--set to work brushing the flour from Nuriko's face, dabbing at the smooth brown skin with the sleeve of his shirt and trying to remember why it was bad for a white boy to get involved with a slave...
Nuriko, as if she'd been struck, slid suddenly back from his touch. Her hand went to her cheek, so abruptly that he was afraid that he'd somehow hurt her, but, of course, that was ridiculous. All he'd done was try to help her to clean the flour from her face, that was all! And, yet, she was standing there with her back against the counter, hand pressed to her flour-spotted cheek, eyes wide and dark like something had scared her.
Hotohori frowned. "N...Nuriko? What's wrong?"
Nuriko looked suddenly pale, but she shook her head. "I-It's nothing," she murmured. "I'm...I'm sorry. I'll make those pancakes, now, sir."
Sir? Granted, they'd only just met...but, the kitchen staff was always so familiar with him. Why...why, Nuriko herself had called him Hotohori yesterday--hadn't she? He couldn't remember...
"Nuriko? Please, what is it? Did I do something wrong?"
The girl stared up at him from where she'd been patting at the flour, and he was shocked to find a sheen of tears welling behind the darkness of her eyelashes. "No," she whispered. "I did. I'm sorry, I'll go get Miaka to make you those pancakes."
She was gone before he could even think of what to say.
~*~
Nuriko slammed the Quarters door shut behind him, closed his eyes, and leaned his back against the wood.
//It was bound to happen. Spend too much time pretending you're something, and, Lord above, you'll become it.\\
He slid silently down the door, touched against the wooden floorboards and wrapped his arms around his knees. Lord, it was bad enough, him being a slave and Hotohori being Tamahome's son, but good God! What the hell was he even -thinking-, flirting with him like that??
"You're going to get your dress all dirty."
The words snapped him from his thoughts, made him sit up straight and stare out into the room with wide, shocked eyes. The Quarters themselves, located in the back of the House for the benefit of the Kitchen Slaves, were relatively small, equipped with a collection of blanketed cots, a few spare chairs, and a table with a small wash basin. He'd thought he'd checked the room before he'd come in, made sure he was alone...but, sure enough, there was Miaka, sitting on the edge of her bed with a piece of corn bread crumbling in her fingers.
"Hell's bells," Nuriko murmured, strangling back the tears. "Don't you ever stop eating, Miaka?"
Miaka didn't smile, though. She stood up, dropped the corn bread lightly on the edge of the table, and moved with a swish of skirts to his side. A moment later, she was sitting beside him, her presence warm and comforting against the darkness stirring in his heart.
"It's all right," Miaka said softly. "I know what it feels like. At first...I was so sure that I was -wrong- to feel like I did, and so I ignored it, but..." Her words faded. "But, it didn't go away."
Nuriko glanced at the older woman, thought he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "You and Tamahome," he said quietly.
Miaka nodded. "Mm-hm. It was a few years ago, just after Hotohori left for the boarding school. I...I thought he was only spending so much time in the kitchen because he liked to eat as much as I did, but...we -talked-, Nuriko. We talked about everything, and even though I wasn't as smart as he was, he never made me feel like I wasn't, or like I was a slave. I was just...just a woman when I was with Tamahome." Her eyes glittered. "A free woman."
Nuriko felt something dark clench in his stomach. That was it. That was what he'd felt with Hotohori--freedom. Equality. Lord, no wonder he'd been attracted to it! And, yet, there was still a question weighing on his mind, one he'd never had the courage or the inclination to ask before. "What about Soi? Did...did she ever find out about the two of you?"
Miaka's voice was soft. "I don't know. She hides it, if she knows." Despite the fact that they were clearly alone in the room, Miaka leaned forward, glanced from side to side as if checking for eavesdroppers. "You know," she whispered, "I've heard tell around the slave quarters down by the fields that that Yui child might not be his. I mean, isn't it peculiar, both of them having dark hair, and she's blond-haired, pale-skinned, and blue-eyed?"
Nuriko felt his eyes widen. "Y...You mean...Nakago??"
"That's what I heard. Course, there's no proof or anything, but..." She shrugged. "Well, anyway, Hotohori's probably waiting for his pancakes. Are you...?"
Suddenly finding himself broken from the distraction of the story and plunged knee-deep back into his own problems, Nuriko sighed. "Yeah, I'll go." With a low groan, he pushed himself back onto his feet, stood.
Miaka was scowling up at him. "Hey, don't just leave me. I'll be stuck down here all day."
With a smile, Nuriko reached down a hand, grasped onto Miaka's fingers, and tugged the woman easily to her feet. During the brief moment they stood face to face, he leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and then stepped back. "Thank you," he murmured. "You always make me feel better." He smiled. "Even if you are a glutton."
Miaka only smiled, and so he turned, tugged open the door, and made his way back to the kitchen.
~*~
AN: Yaaaaaaay. Close, chapter one. Phew, that was kind of long! -_-;;; Anyway, I have to take a five minute shower and run off to class in a few minutes, so I don't have much time for proofreading. Due to that, please ignore any and all typos and obvious grammatical mistakes. I'll fix them when I return. ^_~. Ah, and as for "hell's bells," it's historically appropriate, damn it!! At least, er...that's what Huck says in Disney's "The Adventures of Huck Finn," and by golly, that's good enough for me. *firm nod*
